


a lion among wolves

by khlassique



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Headcanon, Post-Series, Series Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:19:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 9,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khlassique/pseuds/khlassique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the story of a lone lady wolf and her rogue lion (post-ADWD; 9,067 words; complete)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one, a beginning

When he first saw her there was blood on her hands. A single smudge of darkened red marked her cheek, as if she had gone to mindlessly wipe away a tear. There was also red across the neck of her mare, a vivid mark in snow. The man’s body was crumpled at her feet, and Sansa Stark was wiping off her sword as best she could with clumps of snow and grass.

“ _He tried to harm me_.”

That was all she said of him, and if he had a name Jaime never knew. He had been riding for months, for years, trying to find a lost girl. He had found no girl, but a woman grown, with hair that shone brilliant red in the cold sunlight. She seemed cold, too, harsh angles and blue eyes that cut like ice. The mare was outfitted in grey trappings, a familiar dragon sigil impressed into gold hanging from the saddle. 

Dragons had returned to Westeros not long ago, a silver-haired contender entering the fight for the Iron Throne. She had landed near the Ironoaks, clad in foreign skins and leathers with bells jingling in her hair. The last Targaryen had been met with a line of silver armor and a lady in grey, her auburn hair bound back in braids. Both women were the last of their kind, a wolf and a dragon who forged an alliance on the condition of the return of the North to the Starks.

Those were the rumours, at least, but the smallfolk knew nothing more than the rage of war and winter. Jaime only knew that he had to find this Lone Lady Wolf, as they called her, a figure in grey who roamed the countryside for weapons and men. She avoided large towns, taking convoluted routes through the forests, and was little more than a legend in some parts. 

Jaime had found her, though, on his way to venture into the Vale. It was a small trail that hugged close enough to the Kingsroad, and the woods absorbed the noise of his horse’s hooves. In a clearing, the snow thrown about and stained with red, he found her- the Lone Lady Wolf with blood on her hands.

—

She took him to the Eyrie, where an army grew for the Dragon Queen. The days it took to travel were mostly silent; Jaime, it seemed, was an inconvenience that Sansa didn’t know whether to keep or murder. His name alone earned him no favors, but the very mention of going back to Lady Stoneheart received a curt shake of Sansa’s head. 

“I have duties to the queen that come before the Lady Stoneheart.” 

They arrived in a snowstorm, Sansa almost disappearing in front of him through the screen of white. Puddles formed on the floor of the Crescent Chamber when they shed their cloaks and sat in front of the fire, Sansa sitting like a true winter queen in her chair. Jaime’s golden hand caught the warm flickering light, and Sansa’s eyes kept glancing to it, though she said nothing.


	2. part two

Daenerys Targaryen, last of her line, stared Jaime Lannister down as he walked to her temporary throne of wood. _Iron will suit her better._ Her garb was Westerosi, but her hair was still bound in the Dothraki style, silver bells flashing. Jaime had heard rumours of the Stormborn, but in person she _was_ the dragon, slight body filled with fire and rage, all meant for him.

 

“Kingslayer. _Father_ slayer.” Her accent lilted, used to a rougher tongue than Common.

 

_It’s just Jaime now._ He bowed, acutely aware of the guards flanking the queen, wondering if he would feel the death stroke. A bitter irony, to die with a short spear in his back.

 

“Your Grace.”

 

He felt tired and cold, unwilling to explain himself to this foreign queen, a breath of summer in an everlasting winter. _I have found Sansa Stark, there are no more tasks left for me._

 

“I have been told of my father’s madness, of how you supposedly did him mercy with your sword.” She paused, tilting her head slightly to the side in a gesture that reminded him of an eagle ready to strike. “No matter the stories, he was my father, and I cannot let your treason go unpunished.”

 

The pause before his death sentence was heavy, and then

 

“Khaleesi, if I may speak.” A voice that Jaime had heard so few times, yet knew so well by now. He turned to see her, once clad in her armor and furs, now swathed in a fine blue dress that accented what metal could not.

 

“Yes, Lady Stark. Speak.”

 

Sansa strode up to stand next to Jaime, her shoulders drawn back and hair cascading down, catching gold and red and fire in the sunlight.

 

“Your Grace, we wish to take Kings Landing, yes?” The queen gave an affirmative tilt of her chin. “He knows the ways in, the weaknesses, the fortifications. Our maps may only tell so much. Keep him alive, then execute your justice.”

 

More moments passed, and the queen tapped a finger against the armrest of her throne. Her purple eyes stared down again at Jaime, taking in his patchwork clothing and ragged appearance. _I look no more a knight than the palfrey I rode in on._ _Just execute me now and be done with it, so I may rest._

 

“The Lady Wolf speaks well. Ser Jaime, you will aid us in taking Kings Landing under the direction of the Lady Stark. Should you decide to go against me, or your new mistress, trust that she is very good with a blade.”

 

He trusted.


	3. part three

It was another week before he saw the dragons, their screams of steel upon stone keeping him awake most nights. They were chained to the bottom of the mountain upon which the Eyrie sat, accessible only by a twisted narrow stairway carved into the rock.

Jaime wore no sword, no armor, just burnable cloth. Will it hurt like the madness?

Even their mother could not control two of them fully, and only the one who seemed to take in the light rather than simply glisten would calm his straining at the chains in Daenery’s presence. She was so slight and slender in front of her child, yet it bowed before her like the whole of Westeros would. 

“They will not burn us, at least. I have trained that out of them.” 

Sansa shared none of the tension Jaime caged within his heart, for all the seeming nonchalance he tried to portray. Clad in layers of dress and furs, she stood back and ran her cold eyes around the area, ground scorched black and trees shattered and skewed like twigs under hooves. 

Only the wolf would not cower in front of the dragon. Lions had a fear of fire.


	4. Chapter 4

“Again!” 

Their swords kissed, parted, kissed again, a dance of grace and death. Jaime had only ever fought one other woman, and she was not as slight. It was remarkable; this lady who fought like a wolf, but such long war bred strange creatures. 

It was a long time until they parted to rest, breath fogging the air between them. A week had passed since Jaime had agreed to be at his new lady’s mercy, and it was a day of sitting on his thin mattress before she appeared at his chamber door, clad in armor and a sword in her hand. She tossed it to him, and he barely caught it with his good hand, reaching out by instinct with his right. 

“Dulled edge, in case you get ideas.”

“And tell me Lady Stark, what would I do? I will die at the end of this time, might as well do so in King’s Landing.” And see my son, be he dead or alive. 

There was no reply, only a turn of her heel and a summoning hand. And so they sparred, the lady wolf better than most, but still lacking a finesse that came from years of training. Her training came as choice, not necessity as Jaime’s did. 

Each morning, he was summoned to spar with his lady, leaving with his hair freezing to his forehead and an order to meet in the library an hour past. And each morning, he and Sansa planned to take King’s Landing. Some mornings there were more people with them, others, it was a stretched out map and few words ever spoken, Sansa staring into the paper as if it held her redemption.

The Lady Wolf was a quiet one, but whenever she spoke it was always the right thing to say, her voice calm and strong as the ancient stones around them. Her gowns never strayed from blue and grey, subdued like the cloudy sky outside, and there was a wall between her and her men- a steely exterior built up from the ground into a cage. 

Jaime wondered if she knew how sad she looked.


	5. part five

And yet another week, or two, or three, for all Jaime knew, passed before his lady spoke to him words that were not curt and abrupt. They were alone again in the library, a fire blazing in the hearth.

 

“You say you searched for me under the orders of the Lady Stoneheart. Is she who the smallfolk say she is? My former lady mother?” The last words were softer, as if the ice was melting inside her heart, as if the hope that the last of her family was not truly dead could still live on.

 

“She is not your lady mother, but she remembers…” Jaime’s voice trailed off. No, there was nothing left Catelyn Stark left in this world but a moving corpse, and he could not say anything less. “Truthfully, Lady, she is but a shell fueled by hate and rage.”

 

The tension returned to Sansa’s shoulders, the resolution trickling back into her eyes and the cage returning. “I had hoped for something more, that the smallfolk were liars. Though you would hold ill will against her, wouldn’t you? My brother took you captive many years ago, if I remember correctly.”

 

Her left hand reached across to her forearm, fingers brushing lightly upon her upper arm in an unconscious movement. “There is still a scar from the night word reached us, if I also remember that correctly.”

 

The words were so quiet Jaime was almost sure he’d misheard them, a crackle in the fire instead of truth. As quickly as she spoke, the lady moved her hands to fold delicately in her lap, contrasted with the calluses from learning the ways of a sword.

 

“And how long have you been searching for me, ser? How long since the Lady Stoneheart sent you to find me like a Hound?”

 

“Many years, lady. Time runs together in the winter, and a Lone Lady Wolf hides her track well.” With the mention of her new name, a smile twitched at Sansa’s mouth. A joke, perhaps, though Jaime found it hard to believe the lady could smile anymore.

 

“The lone wolf dies but the pack survives, ser. Do you see my pack? The wolves of Winterfell are dead or scattered to winds, my husbands are dead, my cousin too. I do not think the people realize that, and such is the bitter irony.”

 

 _So is the name Kingslayer, lady_.

 

With a careful eye Sansa regarded her knight, as if sensing his internal comment, leaning back into her chair as if it was a throne on which she sat. Hair unbound, it tumbled over her shoulders in contrast to the soft blue of her gown, a soft flush from the chill still on her cheeks. Jaime could almost not look away from her, the cold of her being not yielding to the warmth of a hearth, and he wanted to make her smile again, to let the ice melt and the lady rejoice in a spring that may never come. 


	6. part six

He came upon her on one of his meandering strolls, the setting sun casting Sansa’s features into harsh relief. She leaned over the railing, wind picking at her hair and tossing it carelessly across her face, though she made no movement to bind it back.

 

“I would find you some furs. It would do no good for the Lady of the Vale to freeze before we leave.”

 

When she turned her head to look into his eyes, Jaime was struck by how much the movement reminded him of Cersei: confidant, guarded, always on the defense. But Cersei was missing now, taken into the Red Keep one day and never seen again. If she were dead, the smallfolk would know of her passing, surely, for the word of her public shame had reached the countryside quickly enough.

 

What use was it, though? For all Jaime had loved of his sister, she was cruel and unforgiving, their father’s daughter, and he could see her scars in Sansa’s eyes.

 

“I am fine, ser. The winter agrees with me.”

 

Silence settled between them, punctuated by the screams of the dragons, faint but full of hunger for food and flight. Sansa’s hands were clasped lightly, and she stared down at them.

 

“Did you ever grow to enjoy the feeling of blood on your hands, ser?”

 

“I have killed out of duty, there is no pleasure from that.”

 

Her lips pressed together, and her eyes met his with a look so cold he felt it in his heart.

 

“Even when it was my brother?”

 

The question hung in the air, and Jaime’s mouth dropped open slightly as he took a deep breath in. Remorse was a new feeling, it seemed to him, one that clung to his lungs and pressed his temples and left him struggling to answer.

 

“I was a different man then, with different duties.”

 

Sansa laughed, a short burst of sound echoing out into the valley.

 

“No, ser, you may be a different man, but with the same duties. Serve your lady, protect your lady, keep your lady’s honor- the only difference is that I have not made you swear the oath.” She paused, gaze returning to her hands. “Of course, it was not the lion that killed him, but the kraken.”

 

There was no response for that, no witty repertoire to ease the reality of his actions. They had haunted him, his sins, late at night when the world was silent and the darkness blinded.

 

“All I may say, Lady, is that not all transgressions are so clear in their intentions.”

 

Jaime pushed away from the pillar he leaned on, tilting his chin. The sun was set now, darkness rushing upon the mountains and the sky, and the air was now so cold even a daughter of the north should feel it.

 

Sansa did not even shiver.


	7. part seven

The morning the army moved out dawned clear and bright, the mountains dazzling with fresh snow and a winter wind cutting through furs and armor. Jaime rode next to Sansa, her on the snowy mare and he on a bay gelding. His own armor was used, refitted as best it could be, and it felt as out of place on him as the dragon sigil hanging from his saddle.

 

The real dragons were chained together; their mother on the black one’s back to guide them over the army in swooping arcs. Horses jigged nervously when a winged shadow was cast upon them, their riders keeping a firm leg and hand upon them to prevent falling off of the pathway into the valleys of the Vale.

 

Though the army was large, they made good time, coming to the Trident in less than a week. Camps were always minimal, more concern on simply being able to sleep lightly and leave early. Sansa slept separate from her men, in the same tent as her queen and surrounded by what were called the Unsullied. Jaime slept in a smaller tent next to hers, chilled and damp.

 

During the day, Sansa had Jaime under orders to ride next to her at the front of the army, her personal knight and only company. There was nothing to talk about, and the sounds of metal and armor and horses and footsteps drowned out any chance.

 

The Lady Wolf held a tension in her body that Jaime had seen in young knights. They had fought, they had probably killed, but battle was different. It was _real_ , and even if Sansa had nothing left to live for, it never mean she didn’t want to live. 

\--

            The days of travel started to run together so that all Jaime knew were slowly changing landscape and the sway of his horse’s stride, the Lone Lady Wolf looking truly a queen by his side.

 

            When Daenerys Targaryen landed her dragons a mile outside of King’s Landing, both horses and men seemed relieved to set up a more permanent camp, where their tents were red and black and the queen resided in the center, her Northern Lady residing to the left and her Southern Hand to her right.

 

            Jaime had little experience with Arianne Martell, taking care to avoid her as much as was able. For the lack of love Daenerys had for lions, Arianne would hesitate not to strike one down where it stood. She served Dorne and dragons, independent and unmarried still. He had heard soldiers whisper rumours of Sand Snakes, bastard cousins of the Hand who brought an army from Dorne.

 

            While the queen and her Hand convened often, the Lady Stark spent her nights alone. Once, just once, Jaime heard a muffled sob from the other side of the tent wall, the noise making a part of his heart ache with the urge to go comfort her.

 

            Yet he stayed lying on his cot, staring into the blackness around him. 


	8. part eight

            “The Lady Stark summons you, Lannister.”

 

            It was a mild winter’s day, the sky open and blue, and Jaime had dragged his cot to the tent flap for the best light in which to polish his armor. People had been coming and going all day from the tents next to him, the clamor of preparation finally about to crescendo into battle.

 

            Sansa sat alone at a small table, her sword lying in front of her. The entire tent was devoid of excess, only a table, cot, and worn chest taking up space. He was hesitant to enter, stepping lightly through the entry way and into his lady’s domain.

 

            “You know we ride to King’s Landing tomorrow, ser? Against what is left of your nephews armies for the Dragon Queen?”

 

            _My son’s armies._ “Yes, though I am bound to serve you until this is done.”

            “But will you?” Sansa stood, eyes again bearing into Jaime’s eyes and heart. “If I take you into battle by my side, will I come out _alive_?”

 

            Those Tully eyes betrayed her long-growing fear all too easily, and there was no true way to prove his loyalty until dragons screamed from the Red Keep in triumph. He could try with words, and that was all that was possible.

 

            “Lady Stark, I bound my fate to you. What else may I do to prove to you my honor remains strong, that I am now no more a Kingslayer than you?”

 

            A step closer, a more earnest tone, his golden hand almost reaching out to touch her arm to try and make her _understand_. But she shied, separating them yet again, eyes holding a new fire, no fear to be found.

 

            “I wish to see Winterfell again, and rebuild it. See me there alive, _ser_ , and you will prove your honor.”

 

            It was a last chance for both his life and his honor. Funny, wasn’t it, getting a second try on his last chance.

 

             “I swear upon all my honor, Lady Stark. I _swear_.”

 

            Her mouth drew together, another movement so like Cersei in its hidden meaning and value. The eye’s fire died, and the sadness returned, maybe even pity, if it wasn’t the light playing tricks. Jaime was a trapped lion, tamed and bloody and lame. Sansa was a wolf, young and lithe and stronger than he; her hidden sadness more dangerous than any sword.

 

            “And so it is known, Ser Jaime Lannister. Your honor is mine.”


	9. Chapter 9

The Lone Lady Wolf galloped her mare down the line of soldiers, Jaime following close behind. No dragon hung from her saddle, but the snarling wolf of the Starks, and she herself seemed ready to curl her lip and bare her teeth in the image of her house. 

“Men of the Vale, of the Dothraki, of the Free Cities, of Dorne! We take back Kings Landing today under orders of the Queen Daenerys Targaryen. Fight for your homes, for your loves, for your lives, for your freedom, for your queen.” Her mare stopped and spun to face the men, Sansa radiant in the early morning light. “We harm no children, no women, no innocents, only those who fight for our enemies. We enter through the King’s Gate and converge upon the Red Keep with the Queen and the Lady Martell. Remember the warnings of the dragons, for their fire will not discriminate. Remember what you fight for.”

It may have been the winter winds, but the Lone Wolf’s eyes watered.   
\--  
Could it have ever been called a battle? The kingdom was weary of war, the soldiers of King’s Landing stretched thin and fighting for no more than duty and wages. 

Still, they fought back as best they could, but it was no use. When dragons screamed and burned and fell into their own battle fever, no army alone could withstand them. One arrow found its mark in the black one’s neck, but Daenerys ripped it out of her child and let the men of the Mud Gate burn. 

There was no burning of the King’s Gate, only a blessing of blood and death. The Lone Lady Wolf and her knight fought through, men screaming under the kiss of their blades. Sweat dripped from under helms, horses and dead men steaming in the chill. 

Through the delirium of battle fever, Jaime noticed the bloody handprints smeared down Sansa’s legs.  
\--  
For the first time in hundreds of years, dragons screamed from the Red Keep. Death was the path they left, and it was hours after before Jaime and his lady crossed into the castle yard in their wake. Their horses were covered in lather and blood, Sansa dismounting with her sword drawn at the entrance. 

“And so we enter, ser.” Her words juxtaposed with the viciousness with which she had attacked. 

The halls were eerily quiet, echoing the clink of their armor to lonely corners and empty shadows. 

No screams came from the thrones room, no dramatic taking of the throne. Daenerys Targaryen, so slight, sat upon what was hers by right and became. This was her destiny, her life, what had led her life upon its course, and the Iron Throne knew. No empty eyes of dragon skulls stared down upon the room, but glinting live ones that flicked and flitted and took in their new place by their mother. 

Sansa dropped gracefully to her knees in front of the dais, Jaime slamming down upon his with little regard to the shock of pain. He saw no mother of dragons, but a shaking boy in golden armor with blood on his sword.

“Long rule the Dragon Queen.”


	10. Chapter 10

The boy king and his court were in Maegor’s Holdfast, Tommen rigid in his high chair as the doors were thrown open and the fading light poured in. He was no boy, of course, but the harsh lines of manhood had still not settled into his body. A soft face and a soft heart, was what the people said.

Kevan Lannister made a step forward towards Sansa and her sortie, but Tommen snapped out his arm to halt him. 

“No, Uncle, this is a useless battle now. Run, if you wish. These walls still hold some secrets.” He stood, no sword on his side, offering himself to the victors with a grace little kings had. “My Queen is not here, if you wished to capture her, too. She has fled.”

Jaime’s heart stuttered when Tommen’s eyes met his. They were not king’s eyes, but those of a boy forced to become a man and betrayed by all those who he loved, of a man who knew his fate did not end in a calm slipping away in the night. I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry. The words kept repeating until they rung in Jaime’s ears.  
\--

All in Maegor’s Holdfast were arrested, sent to the dungeons to rot in fear and darkness. Daenerys Targaryen showed no mercy to her predecessor, having him shoved in front of Baelor’s Sept, half-clothed in the cold with his soft stomach growing red-splotched from the winter winds. 

Jaime was forced to be present, an order from the Queen. Sansa was at his side, her face stony and eyes focused into the sky. He wished he could run, show weakness and hide from the eyes that bore into him and his son. 

Kingslayer, the eyes said. Kinfucker. Traitor.

I am just Jaime and that is just Tommen and he is just a boy oh gods. 

Dragonfire was a swift way to die. There was no scream from the dethroned king, simply a murmured, “But who will care for the kittens?” before all was fire and burning. The heat broke over Jaime’s face like a wave, and he shut his eyes against it like he could stem the tide.   
\--

It was not until he was closed in his room that the tears broke, salty tracks silently running into his mouth and off of his chin. He had not truly cried for years, almost having forgotten how. 

A hand touched his shoulder lightly, and Jaime snapped himself up to find his lady standing in front of him, a cup in her hands. Sansa avoided his gaze, instead holding the cup out. 

“A sleeping potion. It will help. Please.”

His hands shook as he brought the cup to his lips, collapsing onto his bed with his soaked face and dirty clothing. I am sorry. 

The last thing he remembered before being consumed by darkness was the soft brush of lips and the warm drip of a tear on his forehead.


	11. Chapter 11

             It was a month before Sansa could successfully appeal to her Queen for leave from King’s Landing, and with each passing day Jaime could see the tension building under her skin. The memories surfaced in dark circles and paler skin that looked sickly translucent, and Jaime wished to give Sansa his own sleeping potions for her troubles.

 

\--

 

            “You may not return to King’s Landing once we leave. All of the south, in truth. The queen was firm in her demands.”

 

            It was cool and dim in the godswood, and Sansa stared into the eyes of the heart tree rather than look at Jaime.

 

            “It would be a blessing to never return, my lady. Would you?”

 

            Sansa’s expression darkened, her mouth pulling down for only a moment. Dresses still suited her figure and ways, but her hands clasped and fidgeted and were as rough as any warriors.

 

            “Rebuilding Winterfell will be my life’s work. There will be no time to return to the South.”

 

            _That answers it, then._ Forever locked away in the North, her beauty and youth wasting away into ice and stone. It was not a life she should have. _She should laugh and dance and be the oncoming spring._

 

            “Then I accept my banishment, though I would like to think of it as a fresh start, Lady Stark. Build anew my life.”

 

            Her eyes met his, that same secret pain echoing in the depths.

 

            “The only things that may be built fresh are out of snow, and even then the memories would melt it down.”

\--

            It was a terrible morning to set out for travel, but not even the gods themselves could halt Sansa Stark from fleeing. The cloak covered her armor, newly shined and with the snarling direwolf embossed upon the chest- her loyalty no longer lay with any dragons, but a pack long gone.

 

            Jaime’s horse threw his head at the falling slush, impatient and chilled already despite the lined skins draped over his back and hindquarters. They were closer to the gate than Sansa, who spoke in quiet tones with her queen at the doorway. A promise of a raven and blessings from the Iron Throne, and Sansa was free to mount her mare and spin her towards the gate and freedom.

 

            They galloped out of King’s Landing, not slowing until distance and trees hid the city. The horses steamed while they walked, stretching their necks down and snorting contentedly. Sansa dropped the hood of her cloak with a sigh, letting the now-cold rain drip onto her face.

 

            “Let us go north, ser. I’ve found these southern winters do not agree with me.”


	12. Chapter 12

            It wasn’t long until civilization disappeared and the winter truly began, with snows so deep the horses never touched ground. Sansa’s nose chapped in the wind the one day she neglected to cover it fully with her hood, the thick wool muffling any noise they dared to make. They stopped when the light started to dim, and some days were better because there was a cave or rocky overhang.

 

            When the wood was all ice and Sansa’s flint could strike nothing but futile sparks, Jaime offered his furs. He had promised her safely to Winterfell; there was nothing he could do if she was frozen.

 

            “Ser, you are being foolish. Save your heat for yourself, I will manage. I have survived this long.” Her tone was dismissive; not at the thought of being so close, but that a wolf would need the help of another.

 

            “Then let us share our furs, and be half as foolish. Trust me, Lady, you will not wish to be alone when the night turns harshest.”

 

            She countered, he persisted, on and on until she relented. _You may be a lone wolf, but that will not keep either of us warm without a fire._

 

            In the last of the day’s light, the Lone Lady Wolf unrolled her sleeping furs next to her rogue lion’s, lashing them together to create one. Backs to one another, pressed tight, they lay silent with eyes closed.

 

            About to drift into darkness, Jaime heard a murmured, “We are the in the North now, you know.”

\--

            Jaime woke first, with a slender wool-clad arm over his chest and a chapped nose tucked into his shoulder. She slept as much a lady as she acted, lips softly parted and a gentle expression, almost as if she were about to smile. He wished to see her smile, as he had for months, to see her face shed its walls and shine like the sun.

 

            Sansa had smiled when she a child, he had seen that, with the flush of first love and infatuation with Joffrey. That love had been killed as quickly as her father, the fear taking over instead. Jaime knew what fear would do, how it would create someone entirely else. The only thing that stayed with him had been Cersei, and she was gone now too, damned to an unknown fate that not even the Small Council would divulge. Jaime would know if she were dead, as estranged as they were.

 

            The Lone Lady Wolf was different. She didn’t need him, yet still she asked for his company. It was not an Iron Throne she wanted, but a northern throne of stone and ice. She would rule with the strength of a direwolf and the deceptive charm of a mockingbird. The smallfolk respected her instead of feared, with her charming smile and Tully looks, promises of justice and deliverance from winter.

 

            _And yet she has no pack except for me, a rogue lion who is anything but._

 

            He turned his head and dared pressing a sad kiss onto her brow before maneuvering out of her embrace, doing the chores in the early morning light that made the snow glitter like diamonds. The horses were huddled together, too, their blankets crackling with a thin layer of frost.

 

            Sansa stretched out in the furs before leaving them, dressing quickly to preserve heat. The thick cloak and hood covered what parts of her figure the armor did not, leaving only those piercing icy eyes to survey the dazzling world.

 

            It did not take long for them to pack, as it always was, and Sansa brought down the hood from over her mouth to finally say, “You were right, ser. The warmth was worth the lost dignity.” And then the wool covered her mouth and nose again, muzzling any other words.

 

            _Yes, and if only the night had never ended._


	13. Chapter 13

            They avoided Moat Cailin, venturing into the deep forests with tense muscles and wary gazes. The Lone Lady Wolf had found Ramsay Bolton and delivered the North’s justice upon him, yet those loyal to him hid like rats in the shadows, ready to strike at the ankles of whoever passed.

 

            Jaime did not know if Ramsay was the first man she killed, or if she enjoyed his blood on her blade. All he knows is that he was dead, and she was not, and that there nicks in her blade, and a shield upon her eyes.

\--

            The Barrowlands were endless, a sea of white with Kingsroad markers barely grazing above the wake. More often than not nights were spent shivering together under furs, the horses picking at what little grasses could be found underneath the snows.

 

            Sansa murmured in her sleep, nonsense about stones and moon doors and mockingbirds, mouth against the thick wool of Jaime’s shirt. Warm breath and gentle hands that always found their way to touch him, as if she needed to know he was still there even when dreaming.

 

            It comforted him, to be needed.

\--

            Winterfell was a noble ruin, blackened and broken stone walls rising above the snows. The winter town was inhabited, quiet but crowded with smoke rising from nearly every chimney. Winterfell may have been dead but the patchy town was protection in winter.

 

            “Let us skip the winter town for now. I must claim what is mine by right.” His lady’s eyes were now determined, focusing on the walls she had left so long ago.

 

            Rebuilding would take years, Sansa had been right about that. Most of the inner walls had collapsed, rotting wood covered in snow and stones scattered across the ground. And yet, despite the ruin, there was still the strength of the North in it- the Starks had survived for thousands of years, their blood and their home hardier than the winters themselves.

 

            The Great Hall was open to the world, though the throne still sat on its dais, as it always had. Sansa dismounted and entered, and Jaime followed suit, though he kept his distance while following her. This was her place as much as Kings Landing was Daenerys’, a daughter of winter and wolves returning to her home.

 

            Sansa did not lower herself delicately onto the seat, but simply sat as if it had been her chair for a lifetime. In a way, it had been, though she had not been there to practice. The wool was pulled away from her mouth, and she looked down at Jaime, a haunted gleam in her eyes.

 

            “Tell me, ser, does the Lady of Winterfell suit her place? Or does it belong to another?”

 

            He knelt, the snow in his eyes as he looked up at her, his Lone Lady Wolf in her rightful place.

 

            “You are a Lady of Winterfell, Heir to the North, the Lady Wolf, the last of the Starks. There is no one else to take your place, and no one who should.”

 

            She smiled a sad smile and rose from her seat, stepping down to Jaime’s level. Leaning over, the wolf kissed the lion’s brow, palms pressing upon his temples.

 

            “Then rise, ser, and become the Hand of the North.”


	14. Chapter 14

            The people in the inn silenced when Sansa strode in, all winter winds and frosted armor. They did not question her, did not need to, for she was all Tully looks and Stark words, and those old enough to remember knew her and her auburn hair. Two ravens and a room, please, and it was granted.

 

            One raven sent south to the Dragon Queen in her Iron Throne, the other north to the Lord Commander at his wall. He was no longer the bastard, nor the boy, but the man who had lived in wolf-skin and come back again. _His_ tales were not like the Lone Lady Wolf’s, but whispered among those who had met a maester who came north to search for a tree. In the tree was a boy who could cure the wolf, and that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? And yet the maester found the tree and found the wolf, too, and the boy changed wolf back into man.

 

            Or so the stories _said_. What was truth was that wolf-skin or no, Jon Snow tightened his grip on the wall, hunting dragonglass and men, and that the crown gave him neither. For years the Wall had gone unaided, and Sansa would not ignore their pleas.

 

            _Brother_ (and Jaime saw how her hand shook as she wrote the word), _let me parlay with our Queen on your behalf. The Wall will stand._

\--

            There were no rooms left in Winterfell, the innkeeper said, and the ghosts too many. _We know of ghosts, there is no need to shelter us from them._ Jaime did not say that, and let his lady bargain for a room. They had no need of coins since the South, and the jingling sound was an already unfamiliar one to his ears.

 

            Word spread of the Stark’s return, and the people came to her at her place in front of the inn’s fire. From here she commanded in a night the rebuilding of a castle, a place for her people to thrive, a place the south could never touch again.

\--

            She swayed as she stood at the end of the night, exhaustion weighing down every bone. Jaime kept himself from reaching out to her; if she was to rule the north she would have to appear as strong as winter. Even when they were out of sight of the others, she kept her shoulders back as best she could.

 

            It was not until she had closed the door to her room and presented her armor to be removed by Jaime that she spoke.

 

            “We have not even started building yet, and already the work weighs heavily on me. Tell me, do you think it will always feel like this?” Jaime paused behind her, unbuckling the paldrons and setting them aside before answering.

 

            “It will get easier, lady.”

 

            “You may call me Sansa, ser.”

 

            “And you may call me Jaime, though you are in a much better position to take that liberty.”

 

            “Addressing you as an equal is a liberty? You are a knight, and older than me.”

 

            “And you are my lady. You could have let me die in King’s Landing, or even the Eyrie, and yet you did not. In a way I owe you my life, and so we are not equals while you hold that sword above my neck.”

 

            She looked down, and Jaime could see her profile from where he stood, catching shadows in the hollows of her cheeks.

            “Is that what this is? Even as you are appointed the Hand of the North, you do so as a threatened man? Have you no free will, or is it only duty and words that compels you to stay?”

 

            “Honor. Honor compels me.”

 

            She turned to him, eyes hardened, and then she shoved him. The force surprised him, and he stumbled back into the wall.

 

            “Take your damn honor and leave then. I have no more need for men who use me for their own, _Jaime._ ” She spit the name out, poison on her tongue.

 

            “Then use me, for what purpose do I have left? Finding you, you were my last chance for anything like honor, like those oaths I made to a mad king, then a drunk king, a cruel king. But you, you will be what they were not, and I wish to see that, to help if I can, to absolve myself. If you wish me to be the first swift stroke of the North’s justice, then so be it. I am your pawn now, and none else’s.”

 

            The silence stretched between them, and Sansa looked between stabbing him and collapsing, her skin almost sparking with the tension in it. Jaime leaned against the wall still, his golden hand feeling an ancient pain that was not there.

 

            “Come.” And so he stood in front of her, and she stared him down with those eyes of hers, trying to see into his soul and push past his memories.

 

            “Do you mean what you say, ser?”

 

            “Yes.” He breathed the word, the only holy prayer he could ever utter, and closed his eyes as if it could make the gods hear.

 

            The gods did not hear, but Sansa did, and before he knew if the cold on his cheeks were hands or blades, lips met his with a shaking brush.

 

            “Jaime, Jaime, _Jaime._ ” She breathed the words across his lips. “My lion.”

 

            His hands came to rest upon her shoulders and slid down her side until they reached her waist, pulling her towards him so that her hips banged against his armor. Her hands moved across his body without looking down, unpinning and unbuckling and letting the metal drop to the furs below their feet. All the while, she murmured his name, tasting it, playing with it, making it hers alone.

 

            The underclothes were easier to discard, laces and buttons moving easily under their fingers. Jaime trailed kisses down to her collarbone, burying his face into the space and saying her name as he kept his golden fingers buried in her cunt. When his teeth scraped across her neck, Sansa’s fingers clasped into his shoulders and pulled him backwards so that they could tumble onto the bed, finding his mouth with hers.

 

            Her hands wandered, pushing his cock out of his pants and into her, biting into his neck as she sank down, marking the lion as the wolf’s. Sweat dripped down her back and curled her hair, and their foreheads were both slick as they pressed together, Sansa’s eyes never leaving his as she chanted _mine mine mine._

 

_Yours yours yours._


	15. Chapter 15

            Sansa was not a maiden. That was disclosed casually, with her hand on his chest and a leg draped over his. For a woman married twice before, he shouldn’t be surprised; but gods, she was but still a girl when his brother wed her.

 

            “Which husband?” Jaime didn’t even know who her second husband had been. Maybe it was better that way.

 

            “Neither.”

 

            “A stable boy? A passing knight? Some lord?” Some part of him itched to know, to irritate that memory until she would let the story out.

 

            “What does it matter to you? He was kind, he was gentle, he is dead. They all are.” With that, she left the bed, her brow furrowing slightly as she picked up scattered clothing and put it back on. “Do not talk to me about it again.” The conversation was over.

 

            “As my lady commands.”

 

            “Sansa.”

 

            “As my _Sansa_ commands.”

\--

            A month passed, and then two, and then three, and the Great Hall was pieced together first, and the men grew stronger in number.  Each night the Lady Stark would sit in her throne, bare of rich gowns or ornate jewelry save for the circlet gracing her brow.  It was simply steel, taken from a sword not yet rusted through in the crypts, and the imprint of a snarling direwolf marked the center of it. Maybe one day there would be a true crown again, but for now dented steel made its presence known. Jaime had been with her when she took the metal, as she bent her head and sighed thanks to the previous king, with his worn stone face and blank eyes.

 

            The crypts’ darkness was unique to them, one that infringed upon the light and chilled Jaime to the bone. These were ghosts who were part of the air, the water, the very stones of Winterfell.

 

            The North remembered, and stayed long after.

\--

            One day a raven, squawking and flapping to the clamor of the courtyard. The ends of Sansa’s mouth stretched down as she read the note, signaling to Jaime from his place with the smith.

 

            She had still let no true joyful smile show, though she still let that soft sad smile come through in her sleep. Jaime had watched it in dying firelight, his golden hand tangled in a more tangible flame.

 

            “The Queen comes to us. Her dragons fly to burn beyond the Wall.”

 

            There had been tales of Others, men who were not, things that did not die and took the lives of all. A woman in red had was said to have sealed the Wall from their touch, and yet wildings came limping to Castle Black half dead from fear and exhaustion, blathering of skin of ice and the destruction of all.

 

            The Dragon Queen knew of magic, knew of death, knew of blue flowers in great walls of ice, and that was the most she needed. She had dreams, and prophecies, and Sansa put what trust she could into this woman of fire and blood. 

 

            “Find a raven and my writing kit. We will welcome her here as best we can. Divert men to work on the Great Keep, as Winterfell must accommodate the queen.”

 

            _And yet it accommodates you. Do not deny what is your right, lady._


	16. Chapter 16

The Queen spent less than two days at Winterfell, long enough to rest her dragons and sleep within a set of stone walls. Builders had been able to divert the hot springs back into the Great Keep’s walls again in time for the visit, though Daenerys seemed to burn her own fire from within.

 

She sent one raven after leaving- her message spoke of a winter heart that lay on an island to the east, in the soul of a boy and a wolf who were nature’s own furies, and the Lord Commander who looked into the eyes of winter’s darkness and still resisted it.

 

_The boy is your brother Rickon, the Lord Commander claims, though the child refuses to be dragged from the Wall, and his wolf is a feral thing. They only find kinship with the dragons, and Rhaegal calms for him._

Sansa shook all over when she read that, standing in the shadows of the godswood where Jaime had found her. Still, he hesitated to touch her, unsure if she would shy away as she often did if he moved first- it was she who had asked that he stay in her rooms at night, she who would first press her lips to his and work her fingers through laces.

 

Yet today he allowed himself to let his fingers graze her arm, and she turned to him, pressing herself against his chest. There were no tears, just her weight against him, like he was the only pillar left in the world, and all he could do was hold her.

 

The wind rustled through the leaves, whispering a secret language that none but trees knew, and still Jaime thought he heard the word _sister_.


	17. an ending

They became creatures of habit, like mice in their nest of stone. Jaime felt himself grow used to the biting winds of winter, knowing he had been cold only when Sansa pressed her lips to his.

 

Rickon stayed at the Wall, but Jon Snow, bastard and Lord Commander, did not.

 

Westeros thawed, as it always had. Maybe one day it would not, and the days of winter would freeze its people solid beneath the snows.

 

Maybe the North would never notice.

 

Winterfell rose up again, and still its queen married no one underneath the heart tree.

 

Men had tried, with words and deeds and force, but the Lady Wolf would not be swayed easily. She wanted many things, but a false husband she did not. (Jaime never asked, and Sansa never offered.)

 

One night she gasped that he was hers; hair flung back in the firelight as her nails scraped lines down his chest. _Sweet sister_ , he heard, and, oh, how his Lady Wolf was a lioness too.

 

-

 

The Lady Stoneheart finds them, as Jaime knew she would. There is no escaping wrath, but it could be stopped with a blade to the heart and a daughter’s tears to moisten the ground within the crypt. Sansa sits under the heart tree afterwards, cleaning her sword with methodical sweeps of the cloth, eyes as hard as the rock she sits on.

 

Jaime simply holds her that night.

 

-

 

A woman with a child in arms comes to Winterfell and does not bend knee to the Lady Wolf, and instead calls her sister. Jaime knows her name but not her face, for now Jeyne Westerling has lines beneath her eyes and the dress of a woman far below her rank.

 

Sansa kissed the little girl’s brow (Robyn, with hair between Tully auburn and the thick chestnut her mother bore) and accepted both into the house of Stark again. Bannermen who had seen what “havoc the little-wolf-queen had caused” stood up in the Great Hall and protested her presence, but the Lady Wolf shut their mouths with threats that sounded more like a feral growl than words.

 

-

Raven wings brought word from King’s Landing, word of a golden lioness with her ragged mane and fierce proud eyes brought into the light of day from the bowels of Casterly Rock. The Dragon Queen kept her there, a disgraced woman locked in eternal night.

 

Sansa read the letter and looked down upon her little niece in the courtyard, swinging at imaginary foes with a wooden sword. Jaime couldn’t read her face then, as he had grown used to being able to do, only accepted the parchment and saw little of the actual words written.

 

 _Need_ tangled in his gut, not the need he felt when light caught in Sansa’s hair and cast shadows upon her face, but for what he knew he had to do. _We are one and the same, dear brother, and we shall part together as we came_ \- Cersei’s smile, as golden as their hair, appeared in his mind, a memory from the lazy summer days of childhood.

 

-

 

He kneels at her feet, hall empty but for them, and asks for permission to leave.

 

The torches conquer only some of the darkness that night bore, his lady’s face cut like the stone upon which she sits. Jaime is reminded of an earlier time, when Sansa was younger and the throne of her father was thick with ice and disuse.

 

She knows his true purpose, though he does not voice it, and brushes her lips upon his in blessing.

 

They fuck then, upon her throne, and Sansa marks his shoulder with her mouth, his golden hand pressing bruises into her hips. Both know this is the last, and as sweat breaks upon their brows he feels a tear drop onto his naked skin.

 

-

 

She is the only one who sees him off, cloak clasped by a mockingbird pin and eyes guarded. The kiss she presses to his mouth leaves the taste of blood, the only kiss they have shared outside of closed rooms.

 

“May the Old and the New look favorably upon you, my love,” and Jaime thinks to laugh, for they both know the New favor no one, and the Old could never look upon him as their own.

 

“And to you, my Lady Stark.” A pause. “ _Sansa_ ,” and with that he wheels his mount and canters off, unknowing of the line her mouth took, the tears that welled despite a viscious shake of her head.

 

\--

 

Cersei’s sight does not adjust quickly to the light from the torch he holds, and his heart shakes from how her delicate wrists are weighed by shackles.

 

“ _Jaime_ ,” and her voice is ragged at the sight of him, and the relief in her eyes is replaced by terror at the realization that he is thin, sick, _broken_. “What has happened to you?”

 

“No, what has happened to you, sister?” He kneels, caresses her left hand and places his lips on her brow. “A mighty lioness is now caged.”

 

“If only you would free me. I know you could,” and he sees the glory of what she once was, fierce and powerful, letting his hand massage up her arm.

 

“I would not meet the same fate as our son. The Dragon Queen has no need for mercy.”

 

“Then we flee Westeros, go to the East and live out our days,” there is a plea in her voice, clinging to the sunny daydream she had as a young woman.

 

His hand is upon her shoulder now, but she does not notice.

 

“No, sister. We end today.”

 

“ _Jaime_ -” and the noise is broken off with a gag as his whole hand closes upon her throat, his golden one joining in the squeeze. Cersei’s eyes ask _why_ , and her own hands come up, fighting the weight upon them to claw at his own throat, uselessly scratching at the thin skin. He coughs, feels his own lungs empty of air from sickness, but his grip does not falter until his golden sister goes limp. Only then does he let himself start to cough freely, feels the blood and bile thicken in his throat and the faint torchlight grow even dimmer.

 

The last thing Jaime sees is Cersei’s golden hair.

 

-

 

In a northern hall of stone, a lone lady wolf sits upon her throne and lays a hand upon the swell of her stomach. 


End file.
